


Where Love Found Us

by agent_starbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Pillow Fights, Post-Episode: s05e04 Detour, Romance, Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 10:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_starbuck/pseuds/agent_starbuck
Summary: Scully's cancer, and subsequent remission, brought them closer together in ways he could've never anticipated. Scully had always been his other half. He wouldn't have been able to make it far without her steadfast dedication to their work. To him. To the truth. And, when he thought he was going to lose her, suddenly he didn't care that she wasn't going to be there to help advance his mission to find Samantha or continue to unveil the deep, dark cover of lies created by faceless men in the government.No.He cared that he would never get to hear the wholesome, cleansing sound of her beautiful laughter again. Never get to become lost in the universe held behind those piercing, cerulean blue eyes of hers again.Never get to taste the sweet desperation on her lips the first time he finally kissed her, or see the look of surprise flit across her face the first time he told her he loved her...





	Where Love Found Us

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Detour. Mulder decides to make it up to Scully after ditching her to go chase Mothmen. 
> 
> Did I mention there is a pillow fight?
> 
> This is also part of the Fic is Medicine Challenge on Tumblr.
> 
> (Prompt 7: Scully laughing or giggling in unabashed happiness with Mulder.)

They're someplace outside Camden, South Carolina. He can't remember the name. Another little podunk town that had relinquished its quaint, Southern Charm to rows of commercial fast food chains and shopping centers a good twenty years ago. Everything is old and faded-- and not in the picturesque ways normally associated with small-town Deep South.

 

It's November but, somehow, the entire state of South Carolina hasn't quite caught on yet. The air is still sticky and humid-- almost as thick and sweet as that sugar water locals refer to as tea. Outside, night bugs serenade the town to sleep through a cacophony of deafening chirps and clicks.

 

Their motel, The Parkview Inn, is dismally nestled between a rundown service station and a McDonald's. The paint on the building's facade is worn and chipped, like his weary heart. He takes solace in the refuge of its battered, imperfect walls. These ramshackle motels have become like a second home to him over the years.

 

The persistent flicker of neon lights reflect off the walls in his room, and Mulder lets out another, restless sigh. Driving over eight hours straight from Leon County, Florida had left him bone tired-- the kind of tired that permeates every cell in your body and makes your eyelids feel as though they're made of lead. He’d collapsed on the bed as soon as he made it inside, not even bothering to shower, and sleep came all too quickly.

 

About an hour later, he woke to the sound of the air conditioning unit sputtering to life, and he'd been fitfully trying to chase sleep ever since.

 

His shoulder aches and throbs, and he briefly entertains the idea of knocking on Scully's door to ask for some Motrin before deciding against it. He's caused her enough trouble already. He could tolerate the pain.

 

Memories over the last few days claw their way to the surface as though he's reemerged from that dark, dank hole in the middle of Apalachicola National Forest.

 

What an inconsiderate ass he'd been.

 

He hadn't meant to be. His intentions were in the right place. (Weren't they always?) That boy deserved to know what happened to his dad, and _he_ deserved to skip out on this year's Team Builders Conference. It seemed like a win-win. But he let himself get swept away in yet another case, not even considering the ramifications of where his investigations might take him-- or Scully-- and it nearly cost them.

 

He was so opposed to going to that conference, he would've done just about anything to get out of it. Reasons why that might have been were shoved haphazardly to the back of his mind. Now, though, laying in the empty darkness of his hotel room, he's all too aware.

 

Scully's cancer, and subsequent remission, brought them closer together in ways he could've never anticipated. Scully had always been his other half. He wouldn't have been able to make it far without her steadfast dedication to their work. To him. To the truth. And, when he thought he was going to lose her, suddenly he didn't care that she wasn't going to be there to help advance his mission to find Samantha or continue to unveil the deep, dark cover of lies created by faceless men in the government.

 

No.

 

He cared that he would never get to hear the wholesome, cleansing sound of her beautiful laughter again. Never get to become lost in the universe held behind those piercing, cerulean blue eyes of hers again.

 

Never get to taste the sweet desperation on her lips the first time he finally kissed her, or see the look of surprise flit across her face the first time he told her he loved her.

 

Because he does. Love her. So much so, that his soul aches for her in a way it's never ached for anything in his entire, miserable life.

 

_And that realization scares the shit out of him._

 

So it's no wonder that the idea of spending three days at some extravagant, paradisiacal resort with the partner he's hopelessly in love with while they worked on communication and sharing and bonding over cocktails also scared the shit out of him. It’s hard telling what he would’ve said, or done, under such circumstances.

 

It doesn't help that Scully has been decidedly less-reserved around him ever since her cancer remission. She smiles a little more than usual. Flirts a little more, too. The Scully two years ago would've never even acknowledged his lewd statement about sleeping bags, let alone reply with such a suggestive comment of her own. And the Scully two years ago _definitely_ wouldn't have brought a tray of wine and cheese to his hotel room late at night.

 

God, he's such an idiot. These were Scully's subtle attempts at coming on to him. Not in the forward way he'd been used to with other women, but in her own little way. And he'd done nothing but brush her aside like she was some pesky mosquito buzzing incessantly in his ear. Scully deserved better, and he was going to make it up to her. Tonight.

 

An idea blossoms in his head and, before he loses the nerve to follow through with it, he leaps out of bed with a renewed sense of purpose.

 

After a quick shower, he throws on a pair of jeans and a grey t-shirt before trekking through humid night air to the motel office. The bell jingles as he steps inside and he squints at the harsh fluorescent lighting, searching for the clerk behind the desk. Reruns of _Three's Company_ drones on in the background.

 

“Uh, excuse me?” His tired, weary voice scrapes coarsely against the column of his throat.

 

A middle-aged man emerges from another room, resting his forearms on the counter while twirling a toothpick between his lips. He gives Mulder an unamused, blank stare.

 

“Whatcha need?”

 

“I was, um, wondering if you, by chance, had any of those little bottles of wine?” He pinches his index finger and thumb together for a visual. “Or any alcohol, really. Doesn't have to be wine. And cheese, too. Any kind of cheese would do--”

 

“This look like the Hilton to you, mister?” the man interrupts in a thick, southern drawl. The sitcom audience laughs on cue through the tinny speakers on the TV.

 

“Ah, no. No, it does not.” A self-deprecating grin tugs at his lips as he turns to walk out the door before stopping to peek his head around the frame.

 

“Vending machines?” He inquires out into the void.

 

“Around the corner next to the ice machine. Ice machine's broke, though,” the voice behind the wall replies, and he digs through his wallet for the crispest dollar bills he can find.

 

Back in his room, he locates the small tray that the ice bucket usually sits on and arranges his vending machine goodies, along with two flimsy plastic cups, on it. The presentation is lackluster-- almost comical-- but it's the best he can do under such short notice. He looks in the mirror to run a hand through his drying hair, and clears his throat, before walking over to Scully's room next door.

 

His knuckles rasp across the solid, metal door, and he waits anxiously, scuffing his shoes against the rough concrete outside. Her light is still on, the soft glow diffused by the curtains drawn shut in the window and inviting a swarm of insects to dance around what little light is bleeding through.

 

He hears the click of the lock moments before the door finally opens. Scully stands before him in a pair of light blue, cotton pajama shorts, a white tank top, and a darker blue silk robe, still open in the front. A pair of reading glasses are perched precariously on the tip of her nose, and she's clutching a book at her side, her fingers caught in the pages like a makeshift bookmark.

 

He struggles not to stare at her with a dumbstruck look on his face, but is wholly unsuccessful. God, she is beautiful, standing there like a sleep-mused goddess. Seeing her like this feels intimate. Sacred. Any moment he will have turned to stone. It's what happens when mere mortals chance upon the Divine.

 

“Mulder? Is everything okay?” A crease forms between her eyebrows. He has the urge to smooth it away with a kiss.

 

“Yeah, um… can I come in?” He manages miraculously without so much as a waver in his voice.

 

She steps aside, and he walks past, standing awkwardly with his peace offering balanced atop his outstretched palm as she closes the door behind them. She doesn't say anything. Only nods curiously at the tray he's holding, setting her book down on the nightstand.

 

“I know it's not exactly wine and cheese, and I know I'm not supposed to be consorting with you in your hotel room,” he swallows as he puts the tray down on the table. “But I, I'd like to make amends for being a total idiot the other night.”

 

“Mulder… you didn't have to do this.”

 

“It was no trouble, really. For some reason the, uh, vending machine didn't have mini bottles of wine--”

 

“I'm shocked,” she feigns disbelief and he feels his heart grow lighter at her playfulness.

 

“I know! But I thought grape juice and highly, over-processed cheese and beef jerky sticks would be the next best thing.” He rips the clear, plastic covering off the cups and pours juice into each one.

 

“Mulder?”

 

“Mhmm?”

 

“That sounds like a terrible combination.”

 

His face is stricken with a look of disappointment as though she just told him Sasquatch doesn't exist.

 

“But, somehow, it's exactly what I'm in the mood for.” She offers him a breathtaking smile. He offers her a cup of juice in return.

 

“Cheers, Scully.”

 

“Cheers,” she replies against the rim of her cup as she takes a sip. He watches her tongue dart out to lick the remnants of juice from her bottom lip, and suddenly the air around them feels stifling. He tugs at the collar of his t-shirt.

 

“I, uh, hope this wasn't a bad time.”

 

“No, of course not. I was just nodding off with a book.”

 

“Anything good?” he prods, trying to make small talk in an attempt to distract himself from how selfishly he wants to reach out and feel her ivory soft skin against the pads of his fingertips.

 

“Pride and Prejudice,” she mumbles, looking away shyly.

 

“Pride and Prejudice, Scully?” he almost chokes. “I'd have never pegged you for a fan of Austen's. Or any romantic novelist, for that matter.”

 

“I happen to read things other than medical journals and scholarly articles, Mulder,” she says, slightly put off. “Quite often, actually. As a matter of fact, I read Pride and Prejudice every year.”

 

“Every year?”

 

“Is that so hard to believe?”

 

“No, I just-- well, I guess there are a lot of things I'm still discovering about you. Even after all these years, you never cease to amaze me.”

 

“Oh?” He catches himself gazing at her, and she worries a piece of loose thread from her tank top between her fingers. Silence hangs between them like a thick, nebulous cloud.

 

“Like, how badly you can sing Three Dog Night while we're stranded in the middle of a haunted forest.”

 

“Hey, you were the one who insisted I sing!”

 

“I know, and I'm grateful for it! Truly, I am! I think it's what kept the Mothmen from bothering us throughout that entire night,” he chuckles, and before he has a chance to react, she's reaching for the pillow on her bed to whack him across his arm.

 

He tosses his hands up defensively, almost spilling his drink in the process.

 

“You wouldn't hit an injured man with that there pillow, would you, Agent Scully?”

 

She narrows her eyes at him dangerously, a playful spark of reckless abandon behind them.

 

“You really wanna find out?”

 

Slowly, he lowers his drink to the table and takes a few steps towards her, stalking his prey.

 

“Don't you dare come any closer, Mulder,” she warns, a traitorous grin threatening the corners of her mouth. “Mulder!”

 

He lunges forward, sacrificing a blow to the ribs to reach for the other pillow on the bed, then smacking her against the shoulder with it. A sly smirk breaks across his face.

 

“Hey!”

 

She retaliates with a blow to the side of his face, bursting into a fit of giggles at his shocked expression, before scrambling across the bed, retreating to the wall on the other side.

 

“Muhhlderrr!” she laughs heartily, throwing an arm out defensively in front of her as he makes his way around the other side of the bed.

 

“I give up, okay?!” she squeaks between ragged breaths as he steps closer, maybe a little too close, and his heart aches at the sight of her.

 

Her glasses are crooked against her face, strands of red hair messily sticking up in random places, and one side of her robe has slid down, revealing her toned shoulder and collarbone. Her eyes are shining bright with a vitality he hasn't seen since her cancer diagnosis, the skin on her cheeks and chest painted a vibrant pink.

 

He was going to lose her, this amazing, brilliant woman. Yet, here she is, writhing against him so warm, so soft, so alive. She is as alive as he's ever seen her.

 

He can't help what happens next. Before his brain has a chance to catch up, his lips brush against hers in a kiss so breathtakingly tender, it makes him want to sob with how right it feels. How perfect. A tiny mewling noise escapes her throat in response, and his knees go weak at the sound. Her lips are so velvety soft against his. He can taste a hint of grape juice. It takes every ounce of control he has not to devour her greedily.

 

Shit. What were they doing?

 

A flood of panic seeps through the haze of his desire, and he hastily pulls away.

 

“Oh, God, Scully. I, I, I'm sorry,” he stammers against her lips.

 

“Mulder,” she breathes, her eyes still tightly shut, and he waits-- the roaring sound of his heartbeat rushing through his ears. He waits for her to slap him, to laugh it off, to reprimand him, to pretend that it never happened. She does neither of those things. Instead, she finally looks up at him. Eyes big and blue and wet.

 

“Don't be sorry,” she whispers, and he's drawn into her orbit again. The pillow dangling from her hand drops to the ground with a _thud_ , and she wraps both arms around his neck, pulling him to her for another kiss.

 

He melts like warm Taffy against her. Their mouths are a sloppy tangle of lips and stolen gasps and tongues-- five years of repressed longing and desire rising to a crescendo of momentous proportions. He's wondered-- oh, he's wondered-- what kissing her would feel like. It pales in comparison to every perfect dream he's ever conjured up, and suddenly he wonders if this is just some cruel figment of his imagination. His hand seeks the warmth of her skin, sliding up and under her tank top, and she moans against his lips.

 

If this _is_ a dream, he never wants to wake up.

 

“Please,” she sighs, and his mouth drags along her jaw as his knuckles brush against the underside of her breast. She's not wearing a bra. _Fuck, Scully._ The realization makes his cock throb in his jeans.

 

He grabs a nipple and pinches.

 

She gasps and squirms.

 

His tongue traces hotly over the contour of her collarbone.

 

She hisses her approval.

 

His other hand cups her roughly through the thin cotton of her shorts, astonished by the damp heat he encounters there.

 

She bites her lip in response.

 

“Scuuullllyyy,” he croons in her ear. He can't help it. She's driving him crazy.

 

More, more, more. He needs _more_. There's so much of her to discover, yet not nearly enough. His hands are a blur between them, tugging and pulling and yanking, until she's divested of all her clothes, standing before him in all her rapturous, naked glory. His fingers find her soaking wet center, sliding in with ridiculous ease.

 

“Oh, God,” she cries out, and he swallows her sensual moans with his mouth, worshipping her with his tongue and hands and fingers.

 

“Mulder--,” she breathes, tugging at the buckle on his jeans. “Mulder, I _need_ you.” Before he can react, his pants are around his legs, his shirt is gone, and she's grasping his hard length with her tiny surgeon’s hands.

 

“Christ, Scully,” he groans into her shoulder. She strokes him slowly, and he feels his balls tighten in response. She brushes his sensitive head against her silky heat, and his breath catches in his lungs.

 

“Are you sure?” he croaks out. _Please, Scully. Please be sure._ He doesn't possess the decency needed to walk away at this point.

 

“I've been sure for a while now,” she says against his lips, and they share a soft kiss as he presses her against the wall and sinks slowly, oh so slowly, into her tight wetness.

 

His haggard breathing comes out in puffs, eyes squeezed shut, as he stills himself inside her. He's almost afraid to move. She feels amazing around him. So fucking amazing.

 

She wriggles her hips against him impatiently. “C'mon, Mulder,” she huffs. He grinds his pelvis into her, sinking deeper until the tip of him meets resistance. She cries out in ecstasy.

 

“What do you need?” He's teasing her now. Torturing her. He knows exactly what she needs, but he wants to hear her say it in that sexy, wanton voice of hers.

 

“Mulder--” she sighs. He grinds against her again, pushing her harder into the wall.

 

“Tell me,” he demands roughly. Her eyes go black with lust. She's enjoying this.

 

“I need, God-- I need you to move. I need to feel you inside me,” she struggles through shaky breaths.

 

He withdraws before slamming back into her again. She moans his name in response, grasping at the muscles in his back, seeking purchase wherever she can find it.

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

She sucks on her bottom lip, nodding in response. He thrusts again, sinking into her perfect heat, mouth teasing that delicate spot behind her ear. He feels her shudder against him.

 

Before long, he sets a frenzied pace, and he knows it's not going to take much. He needs to see her come-- wants more than anything to watch her crumble and fall apart around him. Sneaking a hand between them, he fumbles until he finds her swollen bundle of nerves, gathering their moisture to use as lubricant, and rubbing her with short, precise movements until he finally feels her walls flutter against him. He watches in awe as she tumbles over the edge, and he quickly falls behind, spilling into her and gasping her name over and over and over again.

 

They collapse clumsily into the floor. She rests her head against his chest, and he presses languid kisses to her hair, soothing it with his fingers and whispering sweet affirmations against her still-flushed skin. Three little, dangerous words bubble up against the back of his throat, threatening to tumble out into the space between them, but he swallows them down, feeling the weight of them sink back into the depths of his soul.

 

 _‘She knows,’_ he thinks. _‘She has to know.’_

 

And if she doesn't, he'll spend tonight and the rest of his life proving it to her. Sleeping bags, be damned.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I ALSO read Pride and Prejudice every year. What a coincidence, eh?


End file.
